


Same story, Different Name

by Fic_me_up_buttercup



Category: Supernatural
Genre: Ambiguous/Open Ending, Angst, Gen, Grammerly was my only beta, Hopeful Ending, No Minor Characters, Not really sure what this is but give it a try, One Shot, Random & Short, Short One Shot, slightly betaed
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-04-07
Updated: 2020-04-07
Packaged: 2021-03-01 21:14:33
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 640
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/23533636
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Fic_me_up_buttercup/pseuds/Fic_me_up_buttercup
Summary: There was once a man. He went by many names. The righteous man, Mitchell’s sword, humanity, brother, jerk, Hunter.This man had a brother, shorter in years but taller in height. He too was called many things. The boy-king, The true vessel, freak, brother, bitch, Hunter.And while these names were important, they truly do not matter in the end, because no matter what you call them, or how you tell it, the story is always the same....
Relationships: Dean Winchester & Sam Winchester
Kudos: 7





	Same story, Different Name

There was once a man. He went by many names. The righteous man, Mitchell’s sword, humanity, brother, jerk, _Hunter_.

This man had a brother, shorter in years but taller in height. He too was called many things. The boy-king, The true vessel, freak, brother, bitch, _Hunter_.

And while these names were important, they truly do not matter in the end, because no matter what you call them, or how you tell it, the story is always the same.  
...

It started with tragedy, with death, as many stories of this nature do (they always end that way too). Their world burned down around them and a new, darker, more sinister one rose from its ashes.

The brothers stuck together though. They protected the other because they were the same flesh, the same bone, the same blood (for the most part). The brothers were always there for one another, until one day they weren’t.  
...

One brother packed up and left, it does not matter which because when it comes down to it they were the same person through and through. The same tangled up ball of trauma, unhealthy coping mechanisms, and not so well hidden emotions. They were the same thread, spun from the same spool, occasionally they would separate but they were always pulled back together, tangling up again until it was no longer distinguishable who was who.

But all of that is beside the point, the point is that one brother left and tried to start a new life. But, like all good things, this life came to an end in the same way as the first one, with sorrow and death and fire.  
...

So, the brothers were back to being tangled up in their thread of self-hatred, broken promises, and the need to do, to be, better.

But hey, at least they were together.  
...

Day, months, years pass by like their tires on the pavement, and these years were not kind to the brothers. Many things had happened: heaven and hell, death and resurrection, the metallic tang of blood and the burn of cheap whiskey. And the brothers were tired. Their souls were worn from hell, their bodies scarred from battle, and their hearts broken from the loss (and oh, has there been so much loss).

The brothers were tired but the world would not let them rest, _they_ would not let themselves rest. And so the brothers fought, and they would continue to fight until there was no longer a world to fight for.

And that day was a lot sooner than they thought.  
...

They fought what they used to believe was good, and they became what they had thought was wrong. But, most of all they tried to beat the unbeatable.

For how can you beat something that wrote your every thought. How can you fight something that taught you all you know. And most of all, how can you win the war when you have already lost so many battles.  
...

This is not a happy story with a happy ending. It twists and turns until the heart of it is lost and the ending is uncertain.

Yet, it is still told. It is told in old bars and musty hotels. It is told in rickety cars and the quiet of old graveyards. The story is not told to bring hope or joy. The story is told to teach.

To teach that life is hard and sorrows are many. To teach that love is fleeting and that death is as certain as the life that comes before it. But, most of all, the story is told to teach that while the game is always rigged and the ending already written, the rest is up to you. It is told to teach that a writer can burn just as easily as the thin paper in a well-worn story.

**Author's Note:**

> Hope that you enjoyed!
> 
> If you ever want to scream about ships with me you can find me on tumblr @amoosewithflannlforfur


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